


Goodbye Ruby Tuesday

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 00:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: His life now was completely removed from anything he’d ever experienced, and that was just the way he liked it.





	Goodbye Ruby Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for an Oz slashficathon back in 2004. Thanks to jeremyduck and marksykins for assistance and coaching. Set post-Chosen.

  
There were boats in the harbour. Everything from trading vessels to passenger liners to Arab dhows, with the ngalawas darting in and out like minnows, bringing in the daily catch to the local markets that swamped the parts of the city just near the shore.

The wind from the ocean was wet and hot; full of salt and sea and the smell of burning sand. Shouts in Swahili and English filled the air as the fishermen worked to unload their boats, the morning sun raining heavily down on them. There was a stench in the air, but it was of rubbish rotting in the streets; a sort of organic smell, unlike the smog of L.A.

It was completely removed from anything he’d ever experienced, and that was just the way he liked it.

Every morning, Xander Harris would go for a run in the streets of Dar es Salaam. He’d put on some battered old running shoes he picked up in a flea market two blocks over from where he lived – the stall holder told him they were genuine 100% American, down to the ‘Mike’ logo on the side. Xander did have a finally honed bullshit detector after all those years in Sunnydale, but he also needed a pair of running shoes, and as they cost the equivalent of a Big Mac back in the U.S., he shrugged off the cost and bought them. After all, Giles gave him a salary to help out in the Great Mission, and he did odd carpentry jobs for people here and there in his area.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was pleasant. Parochial. And other adjectives beginning with P.

This morning (as always) he stopped by one of the old stone walls that faced off the sea, and looked out to see as the boats came in from the early morning fishing. He watched for a while, luxuriating in the sound/smell/sense of the place (as he always did), and then he hitched up his legs and started to jog back to his apartment. Most of the street traffic on the way knew him, and there were waves and shouts of greeting and smiles, and Xander nodded, waved back and called out. He had picked up a few words of Swahili travelling around Africa as it was, and the six months of living in Dar es Salaam just helped.

His apartment was situated not on the right side of town; not on the wrong side of town, but somewhere in the middle. It was a bit rough, but not that rough, and it still had most of its walls intact when he moved in, which was saying something. Buffy and Giles had tried to get him to move into somewhere swanky, somewhere safe and expensive and plush, and Xander resisted for little more reason than he could and they were asking him to. He’d lost too much to the Grand Plan when it counted, and now he was stuck with petty rebellions, doing his bit not because he wanted to but because he knew it was right.

Every so often he’d hear of another girl who manifested miraculous powers last year, and he’d track her down (despite people generally not wanting him to), and he’d have a talk with her and her parents or village or tribe, and he’d try to avoid the accusations of possession, the suggestion of stoning and get the hell out of there with said girl before everything went to hell. Money always made things go smoother, but more often than not the girl wasn’t salvageable by the time he got there. One man can only do so much on one continent and Slayer strength didn’t matter a fuck if it drove you mad.

This day was shaping up to be like any other, except for the beaten up panel van sitting outside his block. It looked like it might have been blue in bygone days, and there were still a few panels in which the power blue hadn’t flaked off or been resprayed. Most of the van was a crazy kaleidoscope of shades and tones, as if the painter wanted to make the Rainbow Connection become real and had taken just a little too much acid one day in the bodyshop.

The van seemed to tug as his mind, but there was nothing he could think of that would jog his memory. The plates had been removed probably the same time as some of the paint, and there was fuck all in the way of distinguishing marks beyond some charms hanging from the rear view mirror. They looked Tibetan, but Xander couldn’t be sure – Africa was his speciality now and everything else got left behind.

When he got to the top of the stairs, there was this form lying cradled on the floor, nestled against his door.

Xander blinked for a few moments before he could speak. “Oz?”

The shape uncurled, became more distinct. Oz looked thinner and older, and it sort of looked natural, if only because Oz could dye his hair purple and wear lipstick and nail polish to school, and that would look natural as well. Xander helped him up, and they looked each other over for a few minutes.

“Hey,” said Oz. “Nice patch.”

“Yeah…I was thinking of getting it embossed or something,” Xander replied, and edged past the shorter man to open up his door with a key.

“I think it’d ruin the effect.”

“So I shouldn’t get a bandanna and dress like a pirate?”

“No, pirates are cool. Think of Johnny Depp.”

“I thought you’d be more of an Orlando fan, myself.”

Oz just raised his eyebrow, and Xander bit his lip.

“Right. Alcohol. Do you want some?” he asked, already going for the kitchen cabinet.

“Isn’t it a bit early in the morning?”

“Not when you’re an alcoholic. I always knew I’d make my pop proud of me somehow.”

Before Xander could get to the cabinet, Oz was already there in front of him, one hand cupping his chin, making their eyes meet and refusing to give an inch. He expected some kind of stern words, a lecture, questions but all he got was “I am going to get some weed and then we are going to get high.”

He must have seen something in Xander’s face; the hint of his fear or his wonderings about whether he could bolt for the fire escape in time, so as Oz pulled back, he said, “C’mon Xander. Let’s go down to my van.”

The van interior was just as dark as Xander remembered it, from a few fleeting times in high school when he tried to hang out with band guys and be cool. There were a few boxes of stuff, what looked like a mini T.V., some assorted shit piled behind seats and charms hung everywhere. The floor covering was different too; a thick plush of finely matted white hair, and Oz caught him looking.

“It’s llama,” Oz said, rifling through what looked like an old carpet bag.

“Right. I should have remembered it from Cordy’s favourite llama stole.”

Oz just shrugged. It had been three years and Xander still couldn’t get Oz angry.

A few minutes later and Oz was puffing away on a joint.

“Uh, Oz?”

“You know, if you’re going to tell me you’ve given up drugs and adopted Christ as your personal saviour, I think it’s a little late.”

“No, it’s just…you have something. On your lips.”

Whatever it was, it was shiny and sort of sparkly in the halflight, and it made Oz’s face look closer than it really was, or so Xander hoped. Oz took the joint out of his mouth and handed it over, eyeing him.

“That’s just my lip balm,” he said, as if perfectly normal guys talk about lip gloss, and dug it out of the carpet bag for Xander to see. Xander took the small tube, looked it over, and it was indeed lip balm. Strawberry, if that mattered.

“The African sun doesn’t agree with me,” Oz continued, “I get chapped lips, so I use lip balm.”

Perfectly sensible answer, and when Oz licked his lips, Xander didn’t feel a sudden longing for strawberries. He just passes the joint over, and watches as Oz inhales.

“It’s got sparkles.”

“Yeah. It has.”

Half an hour later and they’re giggling over something Willow did in Junior year. Forty minutes and Oz is struggling out of his pants for some unknown reasons, and Xander is joining him. Oz isn’t wearing any underwear, which is rather woah, but Xander is warm and happy and high and not so much with the gay fear, after having Andrew trail him round like a puppy for months.

And look. Now they’re both naked.

Oz is thin; thinner than Xander realised and he has more than his fair share of scars. From what Xander remembers, he must have got most of them after he left Sunnydale, and that sucks in the same way a great big sucking thing would.

There’s this constant now running through his mind, and when Xander reaches out to dust a finger down one of the scars that lie across Oz’s back, Oz growls and bends over slightly, resting his head between his outstretched arms. Touching turns to kissing, kissing to licking, and there’s nothing wrong with it because nothing involving Oz could ever be wrong. Even the scars are just a piece of the puzzle.

They have sex, which is to say it’s sweaty, messy and sort of writhing over the llama rug, and Oz blows him which is possibly more accurate than ‘sex’ but Xander is hardly aware of the definitions of gay culture.

When it’s over, which is to say it’s well and completely over. They’re both sagging and huffing, and although their fingers are almost touching, they might have been on other sides of the world. There’s a certain amount of silent redressing and avoidance that’s done in said circumstances, and Xander realises surprisingly that Oz is almost as good at it as he is.

Xander opens up the van door, getting used to the blindingly sharp light and letting his weight settle on legs that are still shaky. Oz is sorting through the collection of tapes, and probably making sure the weed is safely tucked away. The crowd is still milling about the van just as it did when he entered, and he’s partly surprised they didn’t steal all the wheels or simply carry it off in the sea of people.

Oz hops out behind him and closes the door, locking it.

“I should probably be going. There’s a shaman who lives outside Mombasa, and it’s going to be a day or so on the roads, at least.”

“You’re still searching?”

“Still searching,” and Oz made an expression that was almost like a smile.

“Well, I’ll see you. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Yeah, it was good.”

They nodded at each other, lying through their teeth and knowing it; Xander moving to the sidewalk and Oz to the driver’s side, opening up the door. Xander didn’t tell him about Tara or Willow or Kennedy, and Oz didn’t ask. Xander got the feeling he knew anyway, but that could have been Oz’s mystique.

The engine was running, and Oz had already belted up by the time Xander remembered to ask the question he’d had since he found Oz lying in his doorway.

“How did you find me?”

Oz didn’t turn to look at him, just slipped in a tape into the deck and let it play for a few moments. “Just followed my nose,” he told Xander, and drove away without another word.

The crowds parted, as they would, and the loud music helped. Xander wondered if they’d ever heard the Stones before, and then went upstairs to make himself some lunch.  



End file.
